


Fluffy Clouds and Little Birds

by TheVenturer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF!John, Cuddles, Drabbles, Fluff, Friendship, Implied Mystrade, Just you wait - Freeform, Kidlock, Love, M/M, Pining, Rating will go up, Seductive Sherlock, UST, Unrequited Love, and requited love, because i'm a butt, carved out of love, drabble upon drabble, itty bitty mystrade, mountains of drabbles, sherlock/john, short and long chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVenturer/pseuds/TheVenturer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles in 221, 442 or flash-fiction format, following the lives of our favorite Baker Street boys; what's going on when we aren't watching? Not in any particular order, updates every other day. Humor, life, love, feels and fluff; includes wonderful Johnlock and a developing Mystrade as well as kid!Lock, BAMF!John and some seductive!Sherlock. Rated T for now, will go up shortly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unpacking is Equivalent to Staying Still

There was no easy way to settle into permanency. For people like John Watson, people who had never really had a home, there was never even a template to look back on. Army life could do that to a person, give the soldier the mind of a nomad; always packed and ready to leave before the shit had even been thrown at the fan. For people like John Watson, bags were never unpacked because that would mean you were comfortable; he had been trained to think that being too comfortable was a death sentence. Drawers were always empty because he knew that in a split second those rectangular boxes which someone had decided to fill with his or her belongings could become someone else's property, firewood, or even target practice. Memories and memorabilia one had spent years collecting like vintage rugby cards could be tossed off to hell, as if a kid sister had decided to use them as tinder in the flames which she cooked her marshmallows on.

That being said, it is easy to see why John Watson had yet to unpack his belongings at his new flat.

It was his fourth day living at 221B Baker Street but, in his defense, he had been trying to write up that bloody crazed first adventure he and Sherlock had shared-A Study in Pink- for his blog. It was half in the hopes that Ella would be satisfied and leave him alone, half to just get out all the excess nerves and leftover thrills. Sherlock, on the other hand, was doing the opposite of John. Instead of still being consumed by the exciting high of the chase, the young consulting detective seemed deflated; like a slinky that had reached the bottom of a very steep hill. The doctor in Watson was genuinely concerned for the lanky man who hadn't left his settee in the past two days. Of course, John would go out at times to brave the grocery stores and escape the spoiled food in the pantry or to simply go out to escape the peculiar smell of ash and mould. But whenever he came back, Sherlock was there. On that couch. Laying straight and long, dressed in the same pajama pants, plain t-shirt and dressing gown he was the night before, and the day before, as well as the night before both of those, etc.

That being said, it was easy enough for Sherlock to deduce why the good doctor had yet to unpack his belongings in their new flat.

Sherlock had actually gotten off the settee when John got out, no matter how doubtful and idiotically worried the doctor seemed to be [obvious from the distractingly long stares he had been receiving from behind the older man's computer screen] about his health. He had told John before they had even moved in together he went days without talking. Had John forgotten already? Must be nice, that forgetting. Sherlock hadn't been able to delete a single memory of John since first seeing him in that lab. The detective wished he could have forgotten the way John's bloody giggle sounded the night he killed for Sherlock, the way he smirked almost lovingly as he told the taller man he was an idiot (the very idea was simply preposterous), the way he wore those monstrous jumpers… the anger and confusion Sherlock had felt only yesterday when he realized John had yet to properly move into his room. He hadn't even emptied his suit case yet! As if he was going to pop out one night and never come back. The very idea left a disgusting taste in Sherlock's mouth, left him… worried. For an unknown reason he didn't quite understand yet, it also left him afraid... That in its own way was disarming.

Sherlock had simply been curious to see what John's things actually were, what kind of small bauble he may own, what books or pictures he might stack or hang… what color pants he might wear (later Sherlock would have the pleasure of finding out they were a beautiful shade of red, like the wrapping paper of a Christmas present…). Obviously, he had looked into the other mans room for the simple reason of learning. Of studying. That was the only possible reason.

As Sherlock looked over at the Doctor across the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. The ashen haired man looked so innocent in his puffy red chair, so at ease, so calm. As if he knew that Sherlock knew but he didn't want to admit he knew Sherlock knew so he just sat there like a know-it-all typing away at his little red laptop… it was infuriating. But as the cutting gaze of Sherlock's icy tinted eyes met the wide, innocent blue deepness of John's, the former lost all their anger. The feeling ran away with the fork like that spoon had in some old nursery rhythm, one long deleted from Sherlock's mind. It melted in the sun like a Popsicle, the violent anger turning sticky; it felt light and heavy all at the same time.

It stung with a bit of hurt but mostly, the anger had turned to longing. The worst kind of longing at that: the kind that made you want to whisper questions on the air so only one person alone could hear them.

And the man in the puffy red chair almost missed it as Sherlock did just that.

"Are you planning on leaving already, John?"

It was spoken so low and faint. The man in question blinked a few times at the screen of his laptop before looking up at his flat-mate. Sherlock's face was blank, causing John to wonder if he had actually heard anything at all.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Sherlock only stared at John for a few seconds more before saying, louder this time, "you haven't unpacked anything yet."

Even though it was certainly meant to sound huffy, there was a fleeting something in the seasoning of his voice. Almost like when you can taste a small bit of cinnamon in some grandmothers recipe for cookies. But to John, Sherlock's cinnamon sounded sour. It sounded… hurt. This, after not hearing that low baritone for almost three whole days, was a genuine shock to the man whose belongings were under scrutiny. Besides, John swore he had heard something different...

"I, uhm… when were you in my room, Sherlock? And why?"

The curly-haired man rolled his eyes and sat up to face John. "Do you really think I lay here all day and night? I got curious and went into your room, so what? The point is, you haven't unpacked any belongings, not even your clothes," his eyes were gaining their familiar fire but now it seemed it was hiding itself.

Knowing Sherlock was holding back made John want to feel the heat rather than just the warmth. Frustration was beginning to boil as he lectured, "You can't just pop into peoples rooms as you please, Sherlock, that's not how it works. And whether or not I've unpacked my things is none of your bloody business."

Sherlock' brows dug deep on his forehead, his frown set deeper on his mouth and John's face did the same. In a battle of wills, they had more exchanges of "why were you in my room?!" Or "bored, John!" Then Sherlock let it slip, the thing he had immediately deduced when he first saw Johns full suitcase resting on the hardwood floor:

"You're afraid of unpacking, John!"

With his mouth hung open still, ready to comeback with a retort or argument, John displayed a lovely array of emotions. Sherlock could see them all clearly, first the anger then a bit of confusion, followed by even more obvious confusion.

"Sherlock… I'm not… afraid of unpacking, I just haven't… why would you…" Johns face took on the pink shade of embarrassment now, as he shuffled on his feet, then he looked at some kind of interesting discoloration on the floor or… something; he looked at anything other than Sherlock. With a sigh the blogger sat back in his chair asked his detective, a bit more clearly this time, how he had come to that conclusion.

"John, you're a soldier. You haven't had an actual home in years and it's safe to assume since humans are creatures of habit, you wouldn't want to unpack because it'd make you… uneasy," Sherlock looked away uncomfortably, wondering why he had stumbled on the last particular word. He threw in an, "Obviously," for good measure, trying to gain back ground. He cleared his throat and continued, "Such uneasiness is cause for concern on my end as I need your mind completely devoted to the case. Once we have one."

John gave a searching stare and Sherlock thought maybe he had done something wrong, something to turn the wickedly dull tables of concern onto himself. No, he couldn't have; he had given no reason for such emotion. It was all John's imagination, thinking Sherlock was somehow in need of coddling. The man was constantly oozing with sentiment and for some strange reason he had started, every so often, to direct that sentiment onto his genius flat mate. Whether it was the frequent stares throughout the past few days or the domestic way John insisted on cooking dinner for two, even if Sherlock rarely ate it… he was like some obligated mother hen.

Nodding his head a bit and slapping his hands on the arms of his chair, John got up and made his way to the kitchen, "fancy a cuppa?" Sherlock looked back at him confused, eyebrows drawn together. He gave a noncommittal grunt before sitting down, this time in his armchair facing John. Steepling his fingers under his chin, he searched the man at the kettle for any possible explanations. All he could see was… John.

"You aren't angry anymore?"

The older man looked over at the detective-who looked refreshingly confused and unsure- and after a few seconds he went back to making the tea. "No Sherlock, I'm not angry…" He came back over and put the other man's tea onto the table between them. Taking a sip of his own, John gave Sherlock a hard look, "but you won't do it again." With that he picked up the paper and began to read the same dreadful tabloids which gave the genius headaches.

With his eyes narrowed suspiciously, Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. He knew he would be going back into the bloggers room, but he decided arguing further was a lost cause. He simply kept studying John, intently searching for that explanation. Why wasn't he asking how he knew the reason John hadn't unpacked? Why wasn't he still angry? Sherlock had intruded, 'crossed the line' so to speak. He knew that much about normal social niceties. But no matter how hard he looked, the younger man saw only the surface. Seeing all, he couldn't observe anything. There was only John… As Sherlock looked at the tea in front of him, he decided that only seeing John was enough- for now.

Meanwhile, the good doctor was thinking about which of his drawers he might put his cardigans and jumpers.


	2. A Study in Sentimentality (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of two, second to follow immediately because it is fluffy Friday and I cannot help myself :)

If there was one thing Sherlock would never admit to anyone, it was how wonderful he found John’s penchant for sentimentality. Usually it was a boring, ridiculous and utterly intolerable crutch which the young man avoided like the plague; it was the flag of the losing side, the motto of the ones who hurt.

Sherlock, being a sociopath – albeit high functioning – often looked gladly and readily past all forms of this emotional hindrance. It was avoidable. Or had been, before John Watson had come limping into his life like the missing integer in some life-changing mathematical equation.

Now, as the morning light penetrates his sleep-induced unconsciousness, the dark-haired detective opens a dusted eye. His eyelashes are sweeping away the dreams, clearing a path for an entirely welcome reality.

Only a month before, he would have found a blank space there; now there is a living mass lying beside him. Short and ashen-haired, muscled and full of everything he lacks, Sherlock opens his eye to find his lover, his doctor, his friend still asleep beside him. For a moment, Sherlock just studies. No observing, no analyzing, just watching the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest; the rise and fall of a slow tide.

Kissing someone awake had always seemed to be a boring, ridiculous and tedious sentimental habit to Sherlock.

That was before he had John Watson in his bed.


	3. A Study in Sentimentality (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second part; might be a bit OOC but honestly, Sherlock does some pretty strange things. I can see this happening, hopefully you can too.

John Watson could accept a great many things about Sherlock Holmes, including the many traits others would love to see completely eradicated from the young detective’s personality. His arrogance was bloody annoying at times but understandable given his massive intellect; his flair for drama was certainly tiresome but never boring; even his experiments were (usually) fascinating.

Something John could have done without was Sherlock’s penchant for testing things and experimenting on him. They were invasive, degrading, and/or just plain mad.   
Most of the time.

There were times when Sherlock’s experiments were beguilingly innocent, like little questions you maybe heard from the mouths toddlers. For example, that time he decided to build an igloo in the living room to see how long it would take to melt, or when he honestly had no idea what the term ‘French -kiss’ implied… though honestly that last one ended up being anything but innocent.

Today, Sherlock’s experiment was simple: Sentiment.

The blogger and the detective were walking the path of a park when the latter, drawn by the bubbling sounds of laughter, spotted a teenage couple nearby partaking in some strange behavior… the girl was atop the boys back, kissing the upper region of his neck. The boy was smiling as he ran in a quick tight circle, causing the girls diaphragm to again push out the elated sounds in the forms of giggles and guffaws.

Intrigued, the curly-haired man looked to the man at his side. Doing some quick calculations in his head, he decided.

“John, I’m going to perform an experiment and I require your cooperation.”

The shorter man had only a few seconds to look up suspiciously but had no time to react as Sherlock dropped back behind him and proceeded to lie on his back. “Oi, what that hell do you think you’re doing?” John tried to shrug the disturbingly light man off his well-muscled frame but the long legs had already wrapped around him like a vice.

Giving a quick kiss to the small space of skin between John’s ear and his ashy-blonde hair, Sherlock instructed quietly: “now, spin around, and quickly; my trousers are stretching.”  
At that John gave a rueful smile… well if that’s how it’s going to be played…

Eventually the detective himself was reduced to a few quiet gasps (he’d never admit he actually laughed) as John spun in tight circles. That caused the air around Sherlock to tighten and his stomach knot gloriously; John laughed as his legs began to cramp.

Sherlock Holmes would never change anything about his counterpart, and many would agree with him; nothing needed to be changed. So as the younger man gave into the simple joy of sentiment, he relished in the discovery he had just made: John Watson had the surprising ability to cause the genius to forget his entire experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for kudos and hits! More to come Sunday


	4. An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a hard time saying sorry. John, as always, handles it perfectly.
> 
> Pre-slash (reminder: these are not in any particular order, I post them as they come!).

Sherlock hated when John left him.

It was always after some kind of row, some stupidly dull domestic which caused the shorter man to stalk off to his room or go out on a walk, leaving the detective stomping to lie in a ball on the settee. The latter would try and analyze every single word which had been spat out between them; each trying to deduce from it some way to either right whatever wrong he had committed or get John to apologize. He’d prefer the second option.

Sherlock hated the way John’s leaving made him feel.

First there was the anger. Even someone with as little interest in emotion as himself was prone to bursts of it. It made him swell, made him want to do nothing more than blow something up (on purpose rather than accident) or shoot at the wall (with something much larger than John’s handgun). The second feeling to invade the detectives being was the worry, then the fear… Like he was being eaten from the inside by it; fear not of being alone but of being alone without John. Sherlock knew he wasn’t well-liked by many and while that never bothered him the idea of John truly hating him, of his blogger being anything more than angry with him, made the young man… panic. He could be anywhere with John alongside him but there was no where he could think to go if John were ever to leave him.

Sherlock hated how he couldn’t say the words to John.

He knew that somewhere he was sorry for how he acted towards his friend. Somewhere he knew what words would solve this puzzle, would make John’s anger soften and melt back into… into whatever John felt for Sherlock normally. Still, he couldn’t say the words. They were locked away from the inside, wrapped in caution-tape, never to be opened. Most of the time he didn’t understand why he must apologize; he simply saved people the trouble of finding things out later than was necessary. Like Molly and Jim from I.T. (otherwise known as James Moriarty) and like… tonight. When he informed John he knew the man was bisexual. This was apparently a bit not good, that knowing…

Sherlock… he hated himself for causing John to leave.

The doctor didn’t get home that night till well past midnight, leaving the lights off. Though it was dark there was the glow of some experiment and the silver moon out the window. Going to the fridge first to check for any food-of course there wasn’t any- he then moved on to the cupboard to get his mug. It was then that it happened, so unexpected John felt himself jump. When he felt his heartbeat increase he hoped it was the surprise and not the close proximity of… He hadn’t seen Sherlock lying on the settee when he came in, but now he could feel the taller man.

John felt the curly hair on the side of his face, tickling his ear. He felt the heavy weight of Sherlock’s forehead as it rested on his shoulder, downcast. They didn’t touch at any other point but even then John could feel the taller man’s body. There was no heat vibrating off which meant Sherlock hadn’t covered up to protect himself from the cool air of night, his posture was slack going by the weight of the downcast head… Even John could deduce what Sherlock was doing. He could feel the words he knew he wasn’t going to hear.

Turning around slowly, he looked over the pale face of his friend. The light blue-green-grey eyes were avoiding contact with John’s darkly storming blue ones; the bags developing under those multicolored eyes were getting concernedly deep… With a sigh, John moved a curl from the middle of pale forehead. Watching Sherlock’s eyes close, feeling miniscule movement of the cheekbones into the touch… John felt a pang in his stomach, a feeling of something too close to longing. No, he couldn’t accept that yet, but…

Softly, John said the words he knew his friend needed to hear, “apology accepted"


	5. Sherlocks First Sneak Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just good, short bit of fun, really. Second part up immediately. Enjoy!

Sherlock knew the man would be unable to stop him.

John’s hands were nearly elbows deep in dark, swirling water. Battling microscopic germs which threatened the health of those who dared cross their path; warring with the possibility of poisoning… Of course, John was winning; his Doctor would always triumph over the evils of… well, the evils of anything, really. Sherlock believed wholeheartedly in that.

Just like he believed that now was the best time to begin his experiment; whilst John was busy washing the dishes.

Of course, it was only logical. John’s hands were occupied, which meant he wouldn’t be shoving the young detective away if he had any sort of objection. Sherlock also knew he would have no problem sneaking up on his blogger, as the shorter man was easily distracted by menial labour. Often humming whilst scrubbing away at the grease and grim, it was some pastime even the genius couldn’t understand. 

So, Sherlock planned the best course of action, and then went into battle. He crept quietly behind the unsuspecting doctor and, just as John plunged his hands back into the soapy water, the taller man bent over, placing a light kiss on the tanned cheek of his friend...

As John jumped around in shock, Sherlock’s silk shirt was thoroughly soaked with bubbles and dirty dish water.


	6. Sherlocks Second Sneak Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

This time Sherlock had it all planned. He had gone over every detail in his head, ever scenario and every outcome. Thoroughly.

Leaving a brand new jar of John’s favorite jam out on the table, it was bait the detective knew couldn’t be resisted; it hadn’t even been opened. John didn’t trust any cans previously opened by Sherlock… Not since q case of mistaken identity and curdled blood; that was for a different experiment. It seemed tedious to Sherlock. John was developing an unhealthy suspicion of all things red in their cupboard… But the taller man had taken many precautions; he had even left a note-a forged note, he had to admit-which said that the can was from Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock watched from behind the hallway door as John looked from side to side, much like a child who was about to raid the cookie jar. The younger man smiled triumphantly because he knew he had succeeded.

His favorite blogger got out a spoon then proceeded to open the small jar of strawberry jam. After a moment of close study which Sherlock found quite entertaining to watch, John brought the container up to his nose to sniff it cautiously. Deciding it was indeed untouched by his genius flat-mate, he concluded that it was therefore safe to indulge in.  
John moved to his red sitting chair and with that Sherlock began to carefully make his way over; silent as a cat silently stalking after a mouse. He kept his breathing steady, made sure to avoid all the creaky spots on the hardwood floor…

Then he pounced… in a manner of speaking. 

Coming around the chair quickly, Sherlock leant down in front of the ashy-blonde man and gave a lingering kiss to the corner of his thoroughly surprised mouth. A tingle coursed through Sherlock’s fingertips as he rested one hand on Johns knee and the other on the arm of the chair. Closing his eyes, indulged in the feeling of stubble under his soft lips, letting his tongue gently graze the sticky skin… the detective could distinguish the faint taste of strawberries, of mint, of…

John was rigid, not knowing what exactly to make of it all. One minute he was enjoying his favorite brand of jam and the next his best friend was actually kissing the side of his mouth. Out of bloody fucking nowhere, Sherlock was kissing the corner of his mouth. It felt like ages before the younger man moved away. As John opened his mouth to speak, no words would came out.

Thankfully, Sherlock always knew what to say:  
“That’s a good brand, John. We should get it more often.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, they make me beam like solar flares!
> 
> With many kind regards,
> 
> Angie/tV


End file.
